


Guide My Soul

by malinaldarose (coralysendria)



Category: Earth: Final Conflict
Genre: Community: trope_bingo, Gen, Halloween, Mother-Son Relationship, Runes, Samhain, Trope Bingo Amnesty, Trope Bingo Round 12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-03-13 08:26:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18937171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coralysendria/pseuds/malinaldarose
Summary: Liam honors his mother at Halloween.





	Guide My Soul

**Author's Note:**

> This fills the Haunted House square on one or another of my Trope Bingo cards for Round Twelve's Amnesty.
> 
> Beta'd by my friend the Paladin.

The Halloween party at the Flat Planet Cafe was still in full swing when Liam slipped through the door to his apartment and closed it behind him, the silver-foiled sound-proofing cutting off the noise. He leaned against the door, hand still on the knob, his head falling back, his eyes closing. He was exhausted. No, beyond exhausted. Not only had Da'an been keeping him running, but his still-new responsibilities as leader of the Resistance had allowed him little downtime; he had had almost no time to himself for weeks, and the next few days until the election were likely to be hellish. He needed some time to recharge, and while he had been courteous in his request to Da'an for the evening off, he flatly told the Resistance that he would be unavailable tonight. He had turned off his global as soon as he left the embassy. He rarely turned it off; he did need to be accessible -- whether to the Taelons or to the Resistance -- in case of emergencies. But if they needed him tonight, well, Lili could handle it. Or Doors, he thought darkly, since the man refused to easily let go of the Resistance.

He pushed away from the door and engaged the security system. Normally when he came home this late, he just fell into bed -- if he even managed to make it as far as his bed. He spent a lot of time sleeping in the black leather recliner Augur had once had positioned in the middle of the floor. He'd at least moved it near the window so that he wouldn't trip over it. Tonight, though, he needed more than sleep. Tonight was Halloween -- the Celtic feast of Samhain, when the veils between the worlds thinned -- and his mother's memories had been pulling at him for days. Tonight, he needed to meditate and celebrate his beloved dead. 

A shower first. He shucked out of his coat, hanging it on its hook. Global, weapon, and wallet were deposited onto the wavy bar that served as both work and eating surface. He slowly climbed the tightly-spiraled stairs to the apartment's loft. At the foot of his bed, he disrobed. Following inner prompts -- more of his mother's memories -- rather than dropping his worn clothing on the floor to clean up later, he folded it neatly and set it aside. From his wardrobe, he drew a pair of new, never-worn pants of a soft, flowing black fabric and a loose green shirt. He had purchased them a couple of weeks ago, following an urge he didn't understand at the time. The clothing stayed at the foot of his bed for the time being. He turned on the shower, fetching a towel and setting it nearby while the water warmed.

It was entirely possible that the water pressure in the building was the best thing about this apartment. Liam stood under the shower -- just stood -- for a long time, letting the hot water beat down on his back and shoulders until tight muscles began to relax. It was with mild regret that he turned off the still-hot water. 

He stepped into the comparatively chilly air of the loft, toweled himself dry, and pulled on the black pants and green shirt. Again, rather than tossing the towel aside to deal with later, he hung it up neatly to dry.

Moving back to the ground floor, Liam drew a box of matches from a drawer in his tiny kitchen and set about lighting the numerous thick white candles scattered around the apartment. When he switched off the electric lights, the character of the apartment immediately changed. The golden glow of the candles filled the first floor with a mellow light that did not reach up to the high ceiling, giving the apartment the feeling of a vast, ancient cavern instead of the tiny slice of a former warehouse that it actually was. All it needed was a print of Ma'el's mosaic, and he could easily believe that he stood in the passage tomb under Strandhill. 

Earlier in the day, before he left for work, Liam had set up a kind of altar on a low table that he placed in the center of the apartment. It, too, bore a couple of thick candles, as well as a photograph of his mother, Companion Protector Siobhan Beckett, a sketch of the remembered face of his Kimera father Ha'gel, and the dark green velvet pouch containing his own set of rune stones. 

After his mother's death, her rune set had been returned to her parents along with her other belongings; Liam could not have requested them without having to answer questions best left unasked. He had found this set in a gift shop not far from Strandhill. Where his mother's runes were plain baked clay tablets with the symbols scratched deeply into them, his set was made of smoothed and polished bluestone, the same type of stone as that which composed the megaliths of the Strandhill circle. The runic symbols had been carved into each bluestone oval and the carvings painted with gold. The set was beautiful. He had initially passed them by, but his thoughts had kept returning to them and eventually he had made his way back to the shop for them. Availing himself of his mother's memories, he had learned to use them; even before her death it had served as another link to her.

He settled on the cushion he had placed before the table, crossing his legs before him. He closed his eyes, and breathed, slowly and deliberately. He drew air into his lungs. Held it. Exhaled slowly. Paused before inhaling again, all on the same slow count of four beats of his heart. Slowly, gradually, his cares fell away and he drifted in a space devoid of time, devoid of worry, devoid of the constant pretenses of his life. Here, he was neither Companion Protector Major Liam Kincaid, nor Liam Kincaid, leader of the Resistance. Here, he was just...Liam.

After a time, he opened his eyes and reached for the pouch. "Grant me weak eyes for things that are of no account," he whispered, "and strong eyes for all thy truth. Guide my soul, Mother."

He drew forth a stone and set it on the table. The symbol on the stone looked like a diamond-shaped fish standing on its tail fins. _Othila_ , he thought. _Radical separation....such as the death of a parent?_

He reached into the bag again, set another stone next to the first. This symbol looked like an M, but each diagonal continued until it intersected the opposite upright. _Mannaz,_ Liam said to himself. _The need to live life in an unusual manner._

He snorted, breaking the solemn mood of the rune-casting. "Ya think?" He was a Kimera-human hybrid who was both a Companion Protector and leader of the Resistance against those same Companions. _Unusual_ was an understatement.

He calmed his thoughts, striving to regain his earlier mood. One more time, he withdrew a stone from the bag. This one looked like an H with a deep, diagonal cross-bar. _Hagalaz: Elemental destruction._

Liam set the bag aside and frowned down at the three small ovals with their gold-painted runes. Past, present, and future. That...didn't look good. Something unpleasant was on the horizon. Changes were coming. Changes that would be dark and difficult.

"And how will we weather it?" he murmured, feeling suddenly as exhausted as when he had walked through the door to his apartment. "How will _I_ weather it?"

"You will weather it as you must, and as you always do," a lilting voice replied. He looked up, startled, and she was there, seated cross-legged on the other side of the table from him, a proud look in her green eyes. She wore simple garments and her hair was loose upon her shoulders. The rune pendant at her throat gleamed in the candlelight. "Hello, Liam."

"Mother," he breathed. "How...?"

"'Tis Samhain, my son. The time when the veils are thinned and the dead may greet the living."

"Is this a dream?"

She smiled. "And what if it is? Those who have passed the veil have very few ways of touching the lives of those they leave behind. A dream does not make my love for you any less real."

Without thinking, Liam reached across the table, palms up. His mother's fingers touched his wrists, just above the red markings of his shaqarava, then she laid her palms on his. He had not expected to feel anything, but the pressure of her palms was real. A sound like a sob escaped him. He looked away, embarrassed.

"No, Liam," she said softly. "This is not a night for grief. Gentle sorrow, perhaps. Joy, if possible. But not grief. I am here to guide your soul." A gentle smile curved her lips. "Until morning."

When Liam met her eyes again -- those eyes so like his own, right down to the tears -- he said, "I've missed you, Mother."

"And I have missed you, my son, and I regret the time we might have had together." She drew her hands back, folding them in her lap. His fingers curled over his palms, hiding his shaqarava, missing the slight weight of her fingers and the warmth of her touch. When next she spoke, there was an impish light in her eyes. "Now, then, 'tis a night of celebration, what have you to drink in this truly dreadful apartment of yours?"

A laugh escaped Liam. He unselfconsciously dashed the tears from his eyes and unfolded himself from his cushion, heading for his little kitchen space. "There's some cider in the fridge," he offered.

"Cider," Siobhan asked, "or _cider?_ With the understanding, of course, that I prefer the latter."

Liam took two bottles of cider from the refrigerator, holding one up for his mother's approval. At her nod, he opened the bottles, rummaged around in the cupboard and came up with two glasses. When he turned back, Siobhan was seated on one of the stools at the bar. He poured her cider for her and handed her the glass, then joined her with his own drink. They clinked glasses. 

"Sláinte," Siobhan said.

"Sláinte agad-sa," Liam replied with a grin.

Siobhan gave him an answering grin. It was the freest expression he had ever seen on her face. "Well done, my boy." She took a sip of her cider and raised her eyebrows appreciately. "Very nice. And so much better for the lack of a CVI. Now, then, tell me all about your father."

Liam sobered. Hesitated. "I think he misses you."

She cocked her head and raised a brow. "While that is nice, it wasn't what I was asking."

Liam looked down. He took a sip of his cider, as he pondered what to say. He still hoped that he and Sandoval could have a relationship -- a friendship, if nothing else -- but since his mother's death, things had deteriorated between them. Not that they were _ever_ all that good. They _had_ worked well together not long ago while trying to find the source of the deadly drug Bliss. Some of their interactions had been almost friendly, but....

"Never mind," Siobhan said sadly after a moment. "I can see well enough. And you, my lad? How do you fare?"

And just like that, Liam found himself pouring all his troubles out to his mother. He never doubted that she was there, that she was able to visit him on this night, able to listen to his woes, give him practical advice and soothing words. He told her about his troubles with Jonathan Doors, about how he had been elevated to leadership of the Resistance, but Jonathan refused to let go and kept trying to undermine him. He told her about his true affection for Da'an and how difficult he found it to reconcile the hidden agenda of the Taelons and the needs of the Resistance with that affection. He told her that sometimes he felt he couldn't trust anyone, not even his closest friends. He told her how alone he often felt, the only Kimera-human hybrid in existence. In the end, he even told her how conflicted he felt about his father -- his human father.

"Aye," Siobhan said, playing with her empty glass. "I see that you do not have _his_ likeness on your little altar there."

At some point during the whole long confession, Liam had risen and poured them each another cider and they had migrated to his couch, sitting on opposite ends, facing one another.

Now Liam shrugged. "He's still alive. You and Ha'gel aren't. It's not a night for him. Christmas. Christmas is a night for him." 

Siobhan's peal of laughter brightened the room. "You, my son, are quite possibly a bit tipsy. I'll expect to see you together at Christmas, then."

"Yeah," Liam muttered. "Sure. If I live that long." He allowed his head to fall against the back of the couch.

Siobhan leaned forward and patted his knee. "Faith, my lad. Have faith. Now then, about these runes of yours."

Liam looked at her without raising his head. "Something's coming."

She nodded, a sober expression on her face. "Aye. 'Tis trials and tribulations to be sure. Be careful, Liam. Pay attention. Bad times are coming. I fear you will suffer a great loss. But bad times never last, and you will see them through. And even though you may not see me, you know I'll be there--"

"--Shining a star for me," Liam murmured. He was beginning to feel sleepy. It had to be quite late by now; the candles were burning low and the room was getting darker.

Siobhan smiled at him. "Just so. Remember, my lad."

"I will." His eyes drifted closed. "I love you, Mother."

"And I you, Liam. I always have, and I always will. Remember that, also." She rose carefully from the couch, and gently kissed Liam's forehead. "Sleep now, my son. Morning will come soon enough."

Siobhan Beckett stood a moment more looking down at her sleeping son, then she turned to the rest of the room. One by one, in the opposite order to which Liam had lit them, she extinguished the candles, until she came to the altar. There she drew a single rune from the velvet bag and placed it with the others. Then she extinguished the remaining candles, leaving the room in darkness.

 

Liam woke the next morning to find himself lying on his couch, covered in a soft blanket. He did not remember falling asleep, much less doing so on the couch. He remembered candlelight, and cider, and his mother's smile. He remembered a listening ear and sage advice. He remembered a sense of peace. But in the wan light of a grey November morning, he began to understand that he must have dreamed it. 

Until he stood up and he saw two glasses, one at either end of the couch. And when he stepped closer to his altar from the night before, there, lying with the runes he had drawn, was the one he would always associate with his mother: Sowelo, her chosen rune, the one she always wore on a silver chain about her neck...and he understood that somehow, she had really been there.

Liam Kincaid smiled, even as he felt the weight of his cares settling once more onto his shoulders. For he knew that his mother was watching, and that she loved him.


End file.
